Be-lov-ed (adj Dearly loved)
by KayteaEM
Summary: Seven people in love with Alicia Florrick.


**Title: **Be-lov-ed (adj. Dearly loved.)

**Fandom: **_The Good Wife_

**Disclaimer: **Not mine! (Sad as that is…)

**Characters: **Alicia, Will, Cary, Matthew, Peter, Eli, Sweeney, and Kalinda

**Summary:** Seven people in love with Alicia Florrick.

**A/N: **Hello! In case you're about to embark on reading this fic **please note:** 1. Thank you, thank you, thank you, what an awesome person you are for reading this and 2. This was started over the summer, long before season five began, and I've only just now gotten around to finishing it. That means that when reading this you should keep in mind that season five stuff hasn't been thrown into the mix yet, or you could just view the whole thing as AU. Whatever floats your boat. As always, I have no beta reader so any and all mistakes are mine.

Happy reading!

* * *

_1. My plan? My plan is I love you._

Will is the obvious one.

He's watched Alicia ever since they were at Georgetown together and she managed to sneak in a win during their first mock trail. Honestly, he still wasn't sure how she'd done it, but Alicia had somehow charmed a jury into believe that Luke, hero of the Rebel Alliance, was responsible for the death of a couple hundred thousand people when he destroyed the Death Star.

C'mon now. Luke Skywalker, mass murder? Hell, had Alicia even _seen_ _Star Wars_?

Normally a young, competitive Will would have thrown a fit, much like the ones an older, equally competitive Will something threw in the back of his office. But instead he'd found himself shaking her hand after the verdict, loving the scent of honey lotion that clung to him. Even back then, Alicia was the only one he was willing to lose to.

And lose to her he does. That's far from the last time Alicia would sweep the rug out from under his feet, earning her a teacher's rare smile and his own grudging admiration. Alongside numerous more mock trials, he'd go on to lose in the race for Summa Cum Laude, first offer to join a firm, and just a few months later, Will lost Alicia to a man he didn't even know he was competing against.

Years later she's a mother of two and for a while Will liked to deceive himself that he'd won that round, maintaining a career while she'd bowed out. It wasn't until he saw pictures of her with those kids, smiling for a camera with laugh lines and comfortable jeans, that he realized he was losing in a much larger game called "life." Alicia looked damn happy, moving from fierce layer to soccer mom with an expression that insisted, 'yes, actually, I _can _have it all.'

It was then that Will resigned himself to losing. After all, if he had to loose, let it be to a woman like Alicia Florrick. He could deal with that.

Except that, an impossible fifteen years later, she came _back _and all at once Will felt like he was _winning_. Suddenly there was an application on his desk that might very well poison the firm, but somehow, impossibly, Diane caved, even going so far as to call Alicia an "optimistic gamble." They had her, and the only real obstacle in her way was an arrogant little boy who wasn't nearly as popular as he thought he was. Will had seen clear as day which of the two Diane favored and he would be damned if he'd let a worm like Cary push Alicia out. In a few short months Will Gardner had everything, from the high-powered position down to the woman of his dreams, now dominating the courtroom alongside him.

Except that he didn't _really _have it all. Will still wanted that last little bit, the piece that would make Alicia his everything, and that desire was pretty damn obvious.

"You know you're staring."

Will tenses as Kalinda slides up beside him, one manicured nail pointing towards the boardroom. There, through the glass, is Alicia, compiling notes in preparation for an interview.

"It's my office space," he says. "I'm allowed to stare."

"Uh huh. Tell Alicia I've got that video of Mark Salin and that I'm forwarding it to her."

"I wasn't planning on speaking with Alicia."

"You are now," Kalinda brushes past, uncomfortably close. "You can thank me later." She struts off in leather, boots, and a coldness that would get her fired, if it didn't make her so damn good at her job.

Will breathes.

"Hey," he says.

Alicia is hunched over six piles of paper and an iPad, scribbling madly. Her hand comes up like a blade, demanding silence, and god if he doesn't snap his mouth closed so fast that his teeth clack. She wants silence? He'll cut out his tongue. It's a shocking moment of exaggeration that doesn't feel nearly as ridiculous as it should.

After adding a last flourish to pile number four she looks up, smiling tiredly.

"Sorry," she says. "I've had those notes in the back of my head all afternoon and if I didn't get them out now they'd be gone."

Will nods. "Try the audio note apps. There are a million of them and they all basically do the same thing, but it's good to have at least one on your phone. Just chatter at it if you don't have time to write things down." He's babbling he knows, but Alicia always manages to understand him.

"So long as it's something that can be repeated in public," she murmurs, mostly to herself. Alicia nods and makes another note. "Thanks."

Silence.

"Oh, Kalinda has me running errands. Something about a video…?"

"She's got that?"

"Yep. Being forwarded."

"Great."

"Yeah."

"Thanks."

More silence.

Alicia is staring at him, absently chewing on her pen. Will has every right to be here. Like he'd told Kalinda, it's his office, his firm, he is in every respect Alicia's boss and can, as a result, go where he pleases, but he'll wait just this once, giving her the option…

"Do you want to sit a moment?" she asks, gesturing to the chair beside her.

"Sure."

There. Now _that _feels like winning.

So he sits, leaning back and crossing his legs. The cuff of his pants just brushes against the seam of her stockings and Will likes to think that no one has ever been this subtle with her before. Certainly her husband hasn't. But of course, Will can't see that his attraction has all the subtly of a freight train.

They breathe.

"Holding up alright?" he asks, as much out of true interest as a desire to continue their conversation.

"Yeah. Things are always pretty hectic—" she gestures expansively around them but, uncooperatively, _Lockhart & Gardner _is oddly subdued today. The halls are nearly empty; everyone having silently locked themselves behind glass. Alicia's smile twitches. Today she wears a daring plum lipstick that matches her heels. "You know how it is. Work, kids, Eli's crisis of the week—"

They both start as Alicia's phone vibrates, skittering across the table. It bumps into her coffee cup before getting trapped between two of the paper stacks.

"Did I summon him?" she mutters, glancing at the ID. "One second, Will. Sorry."

"Not a problem." He shrugs. Easily, fluidly. Not at all frustrated.

"Eli?" It's like a switch is flipped. Alicia's demeanor moves from tranquil to alert in two seconds flat and Will knows that he's lost her. She's already digging into her briefcase to pull out her planner, snapping about upcoming dates. Eli's voice is just a whisper against her neck and regardless of how absurd it is, that this peevish conversation could in any way be viewed as intimate, it still rankles him. Will's hands tighten uncomfortably against the chair. He might be a winner, but he's still losing Alicia – everything from her hand in marriage to her attention on a Wednesday afternoon.

Will doesn't like it. This is still _his_ company, his _territory_, and it should be easy for him to win here. He can actually see himself casually leaning forward, plucking the phone from Alicia's hand and dropping it into that coffee cup. Eli's voice would be silenced and oooh, the _beauty_ of that silence. Will would remain close, whispering about how she should be more careful with company property. Alicia would have some quip for that no doubt and if he were lucky she'd growl it against his ear, smearing bits of plumb across his skin and hair…

But he doesn't snatch the phone away and he certainly doesn't kneel between Alicia's legs. That would be too obvious.

"I'll leave you to it," Will whispers instead, standing. He takes his time with it, straightening his jacket with a precision he hopes will be noticed. It isn't. Alicia spares him a brief smile before contorting her face back into a frown, huffing at Eli about some charity or another.

Will leaves.

When there's glass between them again he glances back at her only once, still continuing to walk down the hall. He thinks it's subtle, but two passing interns bite their lips: one in jealousy, the other in apprehension of an approaching storm. The second girl winces as she passes right by him, yet his eyes never leave Mrs. Florrick. It's embarrassingly obvious that Mr. Lockhart loves a married woman; that he's willing to give her the world.

Which is entirely true. Will knows now that he won't settle for anything less. Someday, he and Alicia were going to win it all together.

He just has to win her first.

* * *

_2. Florrick, Agos and Associates. Think about it._

Cary has no idea he's in love with Alicia.

It never fully registers just how engrained she is in his life. From competition to opponent to ally, Alicia has become the foundation of Cary's identity. Will he remain an employee of the esteemed _Lockhart & Gardner_? Only if Alicia Florrick doesn't beat him out. Does he stand a chance at becoming indispensible to Cook County's State's Attorney; soon to be governor of Illinois? Only if he refrains from pissing off the wife. Cary moves seamlessly from being entangled in his father's influence to being equally caught up in Alicia's.

The difference is he doesn't mind this new position. Not too much.

"Coffee?"

Alicia holds a Starbuck's cup that Cary snatches with more than a hint of desperation. A part of him appreciates the sweetness as he chugs the drink. It had taken Alicia months – after their reconciliation of course – to figure out how he really took his coffee. Years of trying to favor the straight, black sludge that his father preferred had never really paid off. Cary had always liked his coffee sweet enough to please a four year old and when Alicia realized that she teased him mercilessly for a week, then promptly began supplying him with it. Tonight's drink du jour was a caramel something-or-other that slipped heavenly down his throat. Cary doesn't stop until the grainy dredges are skimming his tongue.

He looks up to find Alicia still standing there. She's got an expression close to awe on her face.

"You know," she says, "I never thought I'd see anything that surpassed Peter inhaling hot dogs, and yet…"

"It's going to be a long night," he justifies.

"Yeah."

Setting her own coffee down, Alicia collapses into the nearest chair. Watching her slump Cary feels a spark of pride growing in his chest. This woman is the epitome of dignity and it's a testament to their healing relationship that she's willing to kick back in his presence. Without thinking Cary begins moving stacks of folders to the floor so that Alicia has room to put her feet up.

"Found anything?" she asks, head back and eyes closed.

It took her all of ten minutes to walk across the street and get their drinks. Either Alicia's logic skills are getting faulty this time of night or she has unrealistic faith in his abilities.

"You weren't gone that long," he decides to voice.

"Well it took you all of five seconds to note discrepancies in the Rodden case..."

Faith then. Cary smiles.

"Yeah, only because we divvied up the files and I got ahold of their tax returns first. Pure luck. You would have found it just as quickly."

"Maybe. Not necessarily."

They both know she would have, but Alicia's humility is comforting. Everyone and their mother knows that, to some extent, they'll always be competing. After his initial, brutal loss Cary will forever be measuring himself against Alicia, at least in the eyes of _Lockhart & Gardner_. Alicia Florrick's confidence in him is invaluable, for she is the one person who will consistently benefit from his loss.

Sometimes Cary thinks he should distance himself from Alicia; prove his worth outside of the boundaries she's set. Had he been thinking this through objectively, he would have realized that he'd already attempted this. What else was his work under, not one, but two state's attorneys? But this never occurs to him. Instead, Cary catches sight of an empty coffee cup. Or a post-it note. The wacky faces she makes when she's exhausted and thinks no one's looking. Any of the hundreds of little things Alicia does to make his life easier, better.

Competition aside, he never had that under Glenn Childs.

Cary tips his latest coffee cup. He can feel Alicia's gaze crawling along his back. How long has he been silent?

"You didn't slip some shrooms while I was gone, did you?"

No hesitation. Cary grabs the cup and tosses it at Alicia's head. The styrofoam's got no weight to it and it hits her chest instead, cap popping off in the process. There's just enough coffee left to splatter along her collarbone and – he winces – her white blouse. He's about to start groveling but Alicia is laughing, back arched and head titled towards the sky. She let's out a strangled croak and tosses the cup right back.

"What are you, five?!"

"At heart? Definitely." Its long been a joke between them: the unfortunate combination of hallucinogenics and what he thought was his night off. Alicia seems to be under the mistaken impression that by covering for him she has eternal teasing rights.

She wipes droplets of cold coffee from her shirt, making cranky faces at the stains.

"Sorry about…"

"Don't worry. The lady who runs my dry cleaners is a miracle worker." Alicia let's out a sigh; a final breath of laughter. "We're not getting any work done tonight, are we?"

"Probably not."

"Want to get more coffee, order a pizza, and hang out here until it's too late to reasonably go home?"

Cary checks his watch. 12:03. They could do it too. Killing five hours with food and conversation was easy and by that time the early birds would be trickling in. They'd freshen up in the downstairs bathroom and ignore the individuals (Kalinda) who noticed that he was wearing the same tie as the day before. They were so sleep deprived from a twenty-four hour shift that it wouldn't make a difference anyway. Plus, it looked like moving would be a Herculean effort for Alicia.

"Don't you have kids to go home to?" he asks.

"Nah. Not tonight." She twirls a little in her chair. "Mom took them for some 'bonding' time."

"On a Thursday?"

"It's basically the weekend. It counts."

"And let me guess, she wouldn't let up until you said 'yes.'"

"Yep." Alicia pops the 'p.' "Apparently Thursday nights are the night for extreme bowling. And no, I'm not explaining what that is. Don't even think I could."

Cary hides a grin behind his hand. Alicia's stretched so luxuriously she looks a foot taller than she actually is. She's got her arms cushioning her head and the stains on her blouse rise with each contented breath. The case files they're supposed to be pawing through have become a coaster for her coffee cup. Her clients should be appalled, if they were to ever see her this way. Instead, Cary is sure they'd only find her more relatable.

Once again it doesn't register that this isn't vague amusement. Cary loves her.

"Well then," he says, "I guess the only question is: pepperoni or onions?"

"Pepperoni. Duh, Cary."

It takes him nearly twenty minutes to coax Alicia up to get more coffee. By that time the pizza they ordered is here and Alicia chuckles about good timing as she heads out the door. The pizza guy doesn't even blink, accustomed as he is to crazy, late working lawyers. He takes Cary's twenty, scrubbing at his eyes, and assures him that, yes, there's extra, extra pepperoni. You're six dollars short, sir.

Alicia returns with the fuel – two cups each this time – and they settle in for a pig out. Despite the time and the stressful day they know is ahead, it's one of the most relaxing nights in recent memory. They talk about the case, a little, but spend the majority of the time skipping songs on Pandora and yelling at the advertisements. The iPhone route eventually seems like a good idea so they have a Plants vs. Zombies battle and when that gets boring Alicia introduces him to Dumb Ways to Die. She admits that she'd thrown a fit after finding Grace playing it, but then slowly, surely, got addicted. She makes him promise never to tell her kids she has it on her phone. Cary wonders briefly, in the back of his mind, under what circumstances he'd be meeting Alicia's children.

It's about this time that Cary decides to ask Alicia to leave with him.

He's been planning to start his own firm for months now. The planning, as one might imagine, is extensive, especially when you're hiding the process from your boss. Lots of espionage and all that. However, were Cary to be honest with himself – which he rarely is when it comes to this particular subject – the only decision he'd truly struggled with was whether to invite Alicia. Find distance from those boundaries she's created, or invest in a new, no doubt breathtaking partnership?

This night. It shows him it wasn't really a decision at all.

They work their way steadily through the pizza and then the tic tacs from Alicia's purse (after she comments on his breath. Alicia gets another coffee cup thrown at her for that one.) When their mouths aren't full the time is spent laughing, to the extent that Cary is surprised they haven't consumed any alcohol. He knows they're high on exhaustion. They'll definitely regret this in the morning… well, later in the morning than it already is. In fact, it's only the sudden light in a glass filled building that clues him in. Even that isn't enough because, somehow, Diane manages to sneak up on them both.

"Well now, having fun are we?"

Cary takes a second to enjoy Alicia's comical look of shock before they scramble to their feet, swaying slightly. Files are all over the floor. Pizza box and napkins scattered across the table. The contents of Alicia's purse form a surprisingly large pyramid. Cary winces.

"… Good morning," Alicia ventures.

"It certainly seems that way." Diane Lockhart, 5:15am and looking fabulous. Her yellow dress is cheerful and terrifying. Cary waits for the reprimand… and waits. And waits some more. Diane lets her hips roll and settles against the doorframe.

"What?" she asks. "You think you're the first to ever pull a… modified all-nighter?" They don't respond. "Hmm? You know, I can give you the number of a bakery that does twenty-four hour cookie delivery. Goes great with pizza."

Alicia is holding in a laugh. "Really?"

"Yep. On one… well, three conditions." Diane holds up three fingers. "One: clean up this mess. Clients will be arriving soon. Two: Alicia, change your shirt—" she makes to speak but Diane hushes her. "My office. Closet. Top shelf. I keep a collection of blouses for just such occasions. I'm sure one of them will fit you." Alicia blinks. "And three: you've got a lot of work to get done today and you'd better look bright eyed and bushy tailed while doing it. Sleep or no sleep. Got it?" Diane smiles, but there's steel in her eyes. Cary and Alicia nod vigorously.

"Good." She struts off. "Top shelf, Alicia!"

They stand there a moment. Just breathing.

"Well…"

"We should get going."

"Oh yeah."

They spring into action, cleaning and straightening while Alicia simultaneously produces a comb in an attempt to fix her hair. She grins at him over a compact mirror.

"That was fun," she says.

"Do it again sometime?"

"Mom can take Grace and Zach for a weekend. She'll be ecstatic."

"Everyone's happy then."

Especially Cary.

They work in comfortable silence the rest of the morning, Alicia leaving his side just momentarily to explore Diane's mysterious top shelf. She returns wearing a blue scoop neck top and a light cardigan. It does fit well. Cary wonders if Alicia likes it as much as he does and if she'll buy one for herself. Maybe she'll wear it in a new suite of offices.

_Florrick, Agos, and Associates_. Of course her name should come first. It always has.

He's going to ask her. Soon. After last night he's certain. The time and thought Cary has put into this decision is not unlike a marriage proposal, not that he realizes this of course. Not that it matters either, for truly, the two questions are not that dissimilar. He's going to propose a partnership with Alicia and soon they'll be married to (and through) their work.

Cary is going to ask Alicia to spend the rest of her life with him.

* * *

_3. What process?_

_ Being with you._

At least Matthew admitted it.

Out of all her admirers he is one of the few to release his feelings with honesty. Only Will came as close, lulled in by the distance that a phone message provides. But for Matthew it meant more. A man who spends his life hiding his thoughts behind intellect and Bach lends weight to every confession. They are spontaneous and candid.

On his fifth visit Matthew learns that Alicia has kids. He didn't know. Wrapped up in his music, his algorithms, and her, he has no time to follow the comings and goings of a State's Attorney's brood. The knowledge doesn't surprise him though. When the word "children" slips from her mouth, accompanied by a whole tidal wave of pride, Matthew pictures a little boy and girl, each claiming a crook of their mother's arm. A woman such as Alicia would have two children, rounding out a flawless nuclear family, and her modern sensibilities would demand that she love them equally. Her role as mother is perfect and Matthew smiles triumphantly when she gives the names "Zach" and "Grace."

"Do you have any pictures?" he can't help but ask.

She does: tucked in her purse, floating on her computer, slotted in a wooden frame, hidden in the locket she keeps warm against her skin... They're everywhere, and they are obvious. He would have noticed them had he been inclined to look at anything other than her. Matthew tears his eyes away, just for a moment, and takes in a little boy jumping with his mother's spirit. The girl, only an infant in this photo, nevertheless pouts with a recognizable mouth and nose.

"Stunning," he says, not certain if he speaks of the children or the woman who bore them.

"Thank you. You should see Zach now. I swear I've spent half the money I've made here on pants. Actually," she nudges his forearm, "I'm pretty sure most of what you've given has gone to our ever growing collection of sneakers."

"I'm honored," he says, and he is. "Tell me, have they thought at all about career paths?"

She's off, talking up a storm as only a parent can. It's glorious. The subjects are harsh things – Zach's love of technology that is incomprehensible to her, Grace's balancing act between emulating her mother and entering the foreign world of religion – but the words themselves weave like music. The cadence is soothing, an ebb and flow that aligns perfectly with the Bach he has playing in the corner. It's another song Matthew wouldn't mind having in his life.

After ten minutes Alicia is blushing lightly along the upper part of her cheeks. She's spoken too long, taking up her client's precious time with talk of her children. He's fascinated by her self-deprecating laugh and the definition she gives of "professionalism." What she can't know is that he's not paying her for any expertise in law.

It makes him feel cheap. Not enough to stop, but the uncomfortable twisting in his gut grows until, one day, he's compelled to tell the truth:

"It's never been about the money."

Everything pours out of him that day.

The music is his greatest confession, far more than Alicia realizes. She's commented extensively on his obsession with playing this particular song, but what she doesn't seem to grasp is that he truly listens to it at all times. She lacks an understanding of the ramifications of this, of playing a song continuously. It is, as she'd commented at their first meeting, his soundtrack. Bach has become a fixture in Matthew's life and by giving her a copy of his music he pulls Alicia just a little further into his world. Matthew spends the last four months of his life wondering constantly if she's playing the CD. Each time he hears the shifting notes he imagines that, somewhere, the same notes are playing for Alicia; a synchronized duet across Chicago. It's a connection far more powerful than poetic words or a diamond ring.

He gives her the words anyway though, throwing out far more than implications. "Being with you." It's hardly subtle, is it? And his attempts to reel them back did little good. After all, Matthew would have given her the ring as well, had she asked for it.

After he is dead – murdered, more precisely – he's still remembered . Alicia twirls in the arms of Peter Florrick and chastely thinks of another man. She goes home that night, utterly exhausted, and slips Bach into Zach's computer. Grace asks between yawns when she started listening to classical music and Alicia murmurs that an old friend recommended it to her. They sip hot cocoa in festive green mugs, letting the rhythm lull them into a stupor. Matthew's music was meant for Alicia, a tether from him to her, but he'd be pleased to see it shared with her children.

Some part of Matthew had always meant to give her his music. His offered words were unexpected, but equally precious, and he would have given more, had that been an option. This was only the minimum of what Matthew would have offered Alicia.

A week after Saint Patrick's Day, Alicia is contacted by an estate attorney. She's informed that Matthew left a sizable fund for Zach and Grace's education. There are no conditions, only a note:

_'Buy each an instrument, won't you, Alicia?'_

* * *

_4. I want to renew our vows._

Peter's the fool.

Simply put, Peter has what so many want, yet he chose to toss it away. Truthfully, foolishness of this variety is not unheard of. Wealth, health, love of family, respect from peers— these things seem like a right until they're taken away.

Peter leans against a campaign trailer and thinks about Zeus's jars. It's the only clear memory he has from an undergraduate epics course, a class he muddle through with the help of his roommate's notes. But this he does remember: Zeus and his two, simple jars— one of evil, one of blessings. They sit at his feet and he dips his hands into each at his leisure, bestowing them upon the mortals. No one can know what combination they'll receive, or whether there's anything more to look forward to in their future. Only one thing is certain: one's life may be filled entirely with evil, but never solely with good.

Peter has a pretty good idea of which jar Zeus has chosen for him lately.

"Ready?"

Alicia's head pokes out of the trailer door. She descends, careful not to trip on the rigged stairs. Peter had picked her up at work only half an hour before. With makeup, heels, and a shawl tucked into her purse the practical black dress she wore was transformed into an ensemble in ten minutes time, suitable even for Mr. Granit's party. Alicia tip-toes down onto his arm.

"Well?" She asks.

"What?"

"I asked if you were ready. Or did you need another minute to stare?"

Peter grins, brushing one hand up and down her back. "I'd love another five, if you can spare them."

Alicia lightly punches his arm and he staggers—just like he's supposed to. With an exaggerated, "Ow!" he retaliates by tickling her ribs, right where he knows she'll squeal. And squeal she does, somehow managing to twirl and balance on those stilettos of hers. They've done this so many times before and the familiarity seems terribly important. It gives Peter hope for their marriage.

She manages to pull back and the mood changes, her hips rolling through the tight dress. Alicia draws the eye whether she's trying to seduce or not and Peter is reminded that this is what everyone will see tonight. All day, every day, she has her choice of men. What makes him think she'll choose him for a second time?

Yet she has. Presumably. He asked her and she said, "yes."

So why isn't that enough?

"Well, come on!" Alicia is halfway down the parking lot. She gathers the shawl about her shoulders, coyly looking back. "Eli's waiting in the car. You want to face him if we're late for this?"

He certainly doesn't. Peter jogs to catch up.

"Now, when he asks if he should endorse you—and he will, oh yes he will—you say abso-fucking-lutely. Be bold, Peter. Bold! These corporate tycoons care about two things: money and time. Mostly money, but they still can't be bothered spare ten measly seconds to wade through pleasantries, simpering about what an honor it would be for them to sign you a check. So I'm telling you, Peter: bluntness. They like it. Thrive on it. When Mr. Granit asks if you want money you say—" Eli throws out his hands, gesturing for Peter to finish.

"Oh, I don't know, Mr. Granit." he responds meekly. "Are you sure you want to give money to little old _me_?" Alicia snickers.

Eli knocks his head against the car window.

"Not what you were looking for? Maybe we should get Alicia to speak on my behalf." Peter laughs. He takes Alicia's hand in his and squeezes it. "You're looking for bluntness? Look no further."

She grins. It's one of those amazing moments when Peter _knows_ they're thinking the same thing. Their first night living together and Alicia had made a list two miles long: no dishes left by the TV, clothes go in the hamper (_not _on the closet floor), teeth should be brushed at least twice a day, sleep deprivation is no excuse for not locking the door… and on, and on. She'd read the list aloud to him while he cowered on the couch, but Peter had to admit, nearly two decades later he never forgot to flush.

It had definitely been for the best. The future governor of Illinois should always have clean underwear, right?

"Yes," Alicia laughs, eyeing his scrunched expression. "I can do blunt."

They turn, expecting to see Eli either grinning along or winding up for a tantrum. Instead he's got _that_ look on his face and he's staring at Alicia.

Peter realizes where this is going in a nanosecond. "Eli, no!"

He just raises an eyebrow.

"What?" Alicia asks.

Peter sighs. "He wants _you_ to ask Granit for the money."

"This campaign does need a strong, driven, and above all blunt candidate," Eli drawls. "Are you sure that's you, Peter?"

"Isn't there a quote like that?" Alicia chews her lip thoughtfully. "Something about every great man having an even greater woman behind him?"

"If there isn't, it'll sure as hell be quoted from now on." Eli leans forward, eyeing Alicia in a way that has Peter's jaw tightening. "Oh yes, Granit will like you, Alicia. He might even give more than my little worker bees originally projected. What do you say?"

"Do I get a say in this?" he mutters, but neither of them pay him any attention.

Alicia glares, but it's not nearly as offended as Peter would like. "You honestly want me asking for the donation? Isn't that bad form?"

"Not at all. His ex-wife has kept the business she took in the divorce afloat for years and his daughter stands to inherit the rest of his empire. Granit appreciates a strong woman." Eli flashes a charming smile. "Alicia. Pleeease?"

They wheedle back and forth for the rest of the car ride, forgetting, he would bet, that he's even there. Eli gives an impromptu lesson in extorting promises of money, asking more than once if she'd be willing to flirt with one of the richest men in Chicago ("No, Eli!"). Peter respects Eli more than any other person on his team and he's never had a reason to doubt his loyalty. He knows it's just a growing black mood, but suddenly he doesn't like how often they smile at each other or when Eli makes her laugh, how Alicia playfully punching his knee like she did his arm earlier. Peter doesn't like that they're going to be a hundred men staring at his wife tonight. He doesn't like that she and Gardner—

He grits his teeth, refusing to go there.

What Peter likes the least is that he knows he deserves it.

When the car pulls up in front of the Granit mansion Peter nearly laughs. There are two huge urns, bracketing the entrance.

"Zeus, have mercy," he mutters.

Alicia climbs out, looking stunning under the stars. "What was that?" she asks.

"Nothing. I love you."

"Oh." She takes his offered hand, linking her arm with his. "I love you too."

Peter wonders if she really means that.

As they pass inside a waiter distracts Alicia, asking to take her coat. Impulsively, Peter sneaks a hand into the urn at his right, drawing out a bit of fresh soil. Alicia takes his arm again and he slips the dirt into his pocket, unacknowledged.

"This should be fun," she says.

Alicia smiles at him and Peter prays that he stole from the right jar.

* * *

_5. I could kiss you!_

Eli is all about the details.

There's an art to crisis management that, sadly, doesn't lend itself to relationships. In his job every aspect of every situation must be scrutinized, the layers peeled away until he can find that foundation, the one that's _always _cracked straight through. After all, no one's life is as stable as they'd like to pretend. There's always that one loose stone: money troubles, drinking, family ties, juvenile records, international faux pas, harmless yet terribly creepy hobbies… cheating. No matter what is was Eli would find it. That one detail that could bring the whole structure down. And he'd exploit it, in the most productive and ruthless way possible.

Perhaps one could understand then, why such a talent didn't mesh well with dating. Or really any relationship. Truthfully, Eli didn't have friends. Or rather, he employed a very different definition of 'friendship.' As he'd once told the lovely Becca, none of his friends were in homeroom; they were the high-powered officials he called upon to get nuisances like her out of the way. So really, no friends of the NBC variety, but Eli had gotten used to it. Over time his acquaintances had divided themselves into four remarkably concise categories: _Strangers_, _Allies_, _Enemies_, and _Marissa_, whose status as his daughter lent her a ridiculous amount of leeway in the form of fatherly devotion and him an excellent excuse for airing dirty laundry; it was, after all, a parent's prerogative.

Yes, four categories were plenty to be juggling, thank you very much. Which is why Eli is torn between amazement and frustration when a fifth develops, under the heading of _Mrs. Florrick_.

A week after their first meeting, when he grudgingly acknowledges that she can hold her own against him, it changes to _Alicia Florrick. _

Two months later and it's just, _Alicia. _

How the _hell _did that happen?

Eli is tempted to ask her. She's sitting right beside him, a grilled chicken Panini halfway to her lips. Just a, "Hey, Alicia, when exactly did we become friends?" would suffice. Along with an added, "Your words, not mine."

Instead, Eli just watches as she devours her lunch, completely ignoring his own tuna sandwich.

It would, after all, be a remarkably awkward conversation, considering that she wouldn't have any idea what he was talking about. Despite her study of the law, words didn't hold quite the same meaning for Alicia as they did for Eli. She was… freer with them; not nearly as censored as one would expect from a lawyer and politician's wife. Alicia tossed words around with an ease that either implied well-crafted deception or a sickening amount of sincerity.

Alicia said things like, "Yes, I know him. He's a friend of mine," while completely bypassing the fact that he worked for her husband.

She introduced Zach's girlfriend to the collection of men in her kitchen, gesturing and claiming them to be, "friends and colleagues." It took Eli ten minutes to realize that he was the only one there who didn't work for _Lockhart & Gardner_.

Alicia, more then once, poked him hard in the shoulder, hissing that, "friends don't let friends walk out into a media mob scene without some warning, Eli. Jesus!"

Right.

He mostly ignored the word use, content to treat Alicia as nothing more than a client's spouse who just happened to be a remarkably useful in her own right (and, infuriatingly, adored by his daughter. How had those two even met?) That is, until she'd kick off her shoes during a meeting, and invited him to stay for dinner, and even – loooong after that first meeting – let him sleep on her office couch, and then Eli was right back to thinking, what, what, _what_?

He'd tried using the word once, in a moment of desperation. Peter's falling popularity among middle-aged working women had required that Alicia give the interview Eli had _sworn_ up and down he wouldn't ask her for. After sheepish begging failed him he'd tried to casually throw out, "C'mon, Alicia. We're friends!" and she'd glared so hard he was sure his tie would catch fire. Alicia might have yelled something about manipulation as she was herding him out the door, but Eli was too preoccupied with the iPad she was threatening to smack him with to be sure.

So… yeah. Eli definitely wasn't bringing up the "friendship" issue. Even if Alicia had invited him out, and paid for his meal, and insisted that they sit together in the park… all after storming out of his office just an hour before.

God he wasn't paid enough for this.

They'd had, as always, gotten into a disagreement about her freedom vs. what the public wanted from a future governor's wife. Only this time things had gotten a fair bit more personal. Last Tuesday some no-name blogger had posted a piece about, of all things, Alicia's caffeine intake, citing a long list of correlating sins. She had apparently been spotted hitting the Starbucks across from _Lockhart & Gardner_ no less than five times in one afternoon and the author of the post, with great enthusiasm, pointed out the amount of sugar their dear Alicia Florrick was consuming, how her dependency was looking quite a bit like addiction, and—tough question here—had she gained weight since last spring? It hadn't mattered that on that particular day Alicia was fetching for not only herself, but also her associates and a very exhausted teenage client. I didn't matter that Alicia had one of the most stressful careers and personal lives imaginable – on top of being a mother– and that if anyone deserved a caffeinated kick (or three) it was her. When the article was brought to his attention Eli had scoffed, claiming that their little blogger would have a story when he learned of _his _coffee obsession. It was nothing to worry about.

Except that the post was picked up by some blogs with actual readership. And then it found its way to some god-awful thing called Tumblr. And before Eli knew it local news stations were airing the story, relating the initial jokes about weight gain to Michelle Obama's fight against obesity. Is this _really _the sort of lifestyle Alicia Florrick should be promoting?

Jesus fucking Christ.

So maybe he'd been a bit harsh when he'd called Alicia in this morning and, seeing a coffee cup in her hands, had snatched the stupid thing and thrown it in the trash.

Alicia… hadn't been pleased.

Thus began Eli's Great Coffee Debacle (an hour, a _fucking hour _and his interns already had a name for it). He'd cited the importance of catering to the masses, even when they were acting like the moronic dunderheads he knew them to be. All she needed to do, he wheedled, was give up the cappuccino for a week or two. Maybe be seen eating salad next to something photogenic— like a gym! Hell, if she wanted he'd even be willing to use one of their own photographers and have the prints slipped into circulation.

Maybe he should have been faster on the uptake, but it took Eli a good five minutes to realize that he was digging himself a veeeery deep hole. When Alicia quietly (_terrifyingly _quietly) slipped the word "weight" into the conversation Eli had known, all at once, that he was screwed. He and Vanessa hadn't had the most loving marriage in existence, but they had taught each other a great deal. Along with how to pick the damn finest suits for his frame, Eli learned that you never, _ever _brought up a woman's body. You want to compliment that lovely girl on the street? No. Throw in your two cents about abortion? No. Comment on her diet or her weight? _Fuck_ no.

Well, too late now.

It had, as one might imagine, ended quickly. Alicia left – strutted really – leaving a cloud of minions glaring at him or giggling behind their hands. Eli had fully prepared himself to pick up the phone and start groveling when she'd come back, informing him that they were having lunch and no, he wasn't allowed to say anything about it. Apparently that rule extended to ordering because with no input from him Alicia managed to pick out the only sandwich the food cart had that he'd been tempted by, paid the bill, and herded him onto the nearest park bench. Alicia was now demolishing her pesto chicken while Eli contemplated friendship and wondered if he was allowed to talk yet.

Alicia cocks an eyebrow over her sandwich. "Aren't you going to eat?" she asks.

"… does eating get me back in your good graces?"

She snorts, catching a bit of sauce before it could hit her blouse. "The fact that I know you have trouble censoring your mouth when it comes to the job and the fact that you are an _idiot _are what keeps you in my good graces."

"Ah." He takes a bite of the tuna.

Alicia rolls her eyes. Eli thought she might have muttered something about it being a damn good thing she wasn't self-conscious about her body, but it was lost amongst the chicken.

Well, great. Wonderful. The boss's wife/colleague/sorta-friend-I-don't-even-know-anym ore lady wasn't breathing fire his way. That was _good. _Now all Eli had to do was find a way to kill the article before it did any permanent damage. Maybe he could spin one of those scientific studies that promoted the hidden benefits of coffee. Or refocus obesity conversation on soda. _Yes. _A little birdie had told him last week that Subway was planning to add an X-Large gulp to their drink menu and the health promoting bastards were fools if they thought they could exceed 32 ounces without a backlash. He'd planned to save that little rumor for a future date, but maybe if he threw it out now and kept the Saladworks investigation under wraps for just a while longer—

Alicia sighs, breaking his concentration.

"Zach bought me this giant tea sampler last Christmas," she says, crumpling up her meal. "Didn't know what else to get me. Honestly, I think he panicked after I managed to crush the iPod Nano he got for my birthday." She smiles. "Would that help?"

Eli blinks. "Would teaching Zach how to get decent gifts help…?"

"No. Would me drinking tea for a while help?" Alicia toasts him with her glass that, he notices for the first time, contains only water.

Not a whole lot of that got through, but Eli did catch "me," "tea," "while" which, frankly, sounds great so, "… Yes?" he answers.

"Yes?"

"Yes."

"Okay then." Alicia pulls out her phone, typing rapidly.

It isn't often that Eli feels out of the loop. This was definitely one of those times, but he is determined not to acknowledge that Alicia now heralds nearly every stupid instance that leaves him gapping like a fish.

"…What are you doing?" he asks tentatively, peering over to look at the screen. His tuna is getting mushed.

"Setting up a reminder."

"For…?"

"Bringing tea to the office and sticking some in my purse. Everyone has those Keurigs now but I haven't seen too many tea K-cups. Mind you though, I'm doing this for two weeks, tops. After that the media can get over my drinking habits." She pauses and tilts her head, considering. "Actually, you'd better keep them from speaking with Grace. She thinks I really do have a drinking problem." Alicia laughs and _how exactly is that funny_?

More than one fool has advised Eli that honesty is always the best policy, to which he normally responds, "bullshit." But in this case –

"Alicia, I don't have a clue what you're talking about."

"It's not rocket science, Eli." Yet she spares him a glance that is more than a little mischievous. "I'm drinking tea instead of coffee for a while. Isn't this what you wanted?"

"Well yeah, but—"

"Then what's the problem?"

"No problem, just—"

"Really? Because it sounds like there's a problem."

"_Alicia_." Eli grounds his teeth together. His poor sandwich is obliterated under his fist. "_Why _are you doing this?" Releasing the tuna he waves his hands frantically, nearly upending both their drinks. "You were furious this morning! You— you said you wouldn't cater to those media pigs if this was Peter's last chance at _any _elected position."

"Good memory."

"—Then you come back, kidnap me, and suddenly you're saying, 'oh yes, Eli, I'd be happy to help you. I'll just go drink some leaf water now, no big deal." He gestures violently, willing her to get it. "— _What_?"

To his surprise Alicia laughs softly, reaching over to gather up his trash. "You hit the nail on the head, Eli. I _won't_ cater to the media, but I amwilling to help _you. _We're friends after all." She shrugs, like she hadn't just used that goddamn complicated word. _Again. _It takes Eli a second to realize that she is still talking. "I won't change my habits just to further a campaign and I certainly won't change because a bunch of righteous strangers want me to, but if you – _just _you, Eli – will be a little less stressed if I drink tea for a while," Alicia shrugs again. "Then sure. Why not?"

She doesn't really give him a chance to respond, not that he'd have known what to say. Instead of waiting awkwardly for him to find his tongue Alicia eases the destroyed sandwich out of his hands, throwing it into the trash. Then, hesitating only a second, she leans down to kiss his cheek.

"Two weeks," she says, "and no photographer. Your minions stalk me enough as it is."

And then she leaves.

Eli would like to say that he responded to this… _friendly _compromise with grace; that he took the time to appreciate what he'd been given and, later, thanked Alicia properly. What really happened is that he sat brooding in the park another hour and never, _ever _brought up the incident again.

He might have thought about the kiss though. Just a little.

Alicia, as always, was true to her word. For two weeks she drank nothing but chamomile with a bit of sugar and the public praised her willingness to improve herself. If anyone other than her friends and family noticed the dark circles under her eyes it wasn't mentioned and, as he'd known it would, Chicago's bloggers eventually found something new and equally ridiculous to chat about. When the two weeks were up Alicia's entire floor at _Lockhart & Gardner _received an anonymous order from Starbucks that may or may not have come from a certain campaign office.

Eli found new favors to ask Alicia for and she obliged him with some of them. Alicia went out of her way to do other things in the name of 'friendship' and Eli floundered. During a particularly stressful week in which he'd slept no more than twelve hours, he might have had a bit of a breakdown. Alicia – _Saint _Alicia – not only got him out from under David Lee's coldblooded gaze before the frustrated tears started but even held him a little. Eli probably should have been mortified, crying into her shoulder like a distressed schoolboy, but he'd passed out too quickly to care. When he'd awoken on that familiar couch six hours later Alicia had just shaken her head, handing him her leftover takeout curry. When he'd still refused to meet her eye Alicia reminded him that she was also a mother and that, somehow, helped.

And there were little things. Alicia liked to text him bland 'what are you up to' questions when depositions got boring. Eli didn't know what to do with those, but he didn't delete them. It all felt way more complicated than it should have.

Which was why, when Marissa sneaks her feet onto his desk and grills him about his "social life," Eli shrugs noncommittally.

"Ah c'mon, Dad. No new girlfriends?"

There were too many images _that _particular word brings up. Not only Vanessa's quips and Natalie's smile but – jesus fucking Christ – Alicia's kiss on the cheek and just— _no. _

"Made any friends at least?"

His daughter is teasing him, all grins and crude winks. They'd competed against each other since she was old enough to understand such lovely concepts like 'blackmail' and 'decimation,' but the area she'd always bested her father in was emotional manipulation. They both knew he had a head for crisis management that she could never match, while she understood relationships in a way that made his head spin. Not to mention the fact that his Marissa was still young enough that making dear old Dad blush was the highlight of the week. He _really _wanted to wipe that smirk off her face.

"I'll have you know," Eli says, oozing nonchalance, "that I _do _have a friend."

"No!"

His lips twitch. "Alicia understands the awesomeness of monster movies. We're watching _Creature from the Black Lagoon _this weekend."

Eli would have won this round even without the friendship bit, just mentioning Alicia has his daughter gushing with feminist adoration. It was always the same praise about her high-powered job, and coming back to the workplace, and her role as a working mother, and now her handling of the press, and how she speaks so eloquently about women's issues and dear _god _please make it stop.

Well, perhaps hearing someone he loves sing Alicia's praises isn't all bad. Here at least was a topic that he and Marissa could always agree on. Eli isn't at all surprised when she starts begging to join their little film screening and he is eternally grateful for the emergency meeting that pulls him away. He actually has to call Alicia and see if she _wants_ to get together this weekend, but he has a feeling that she will say yes. Agreeing to ridiculous requests like watching B horror movies with your husband's campaign manager and his over zealous daughter is, apparently, friendship, and Eli is sorta-kinda-maybe getting used to that. He is willing to get used to it, for Alicia, even if it's still the most god-awful confusing thing he's ever dealt with.

* * *

_6. I like a lot of things about you, Mrs. Florrick_

Sweeney just wants to fuck her.

She's wearing a red top today, with draped sleeves that tease glimpses of her underarms. There's just enough fabric that he could tear it without bearing any skin. One strip for her wrists, bound crossed and inside out (her arms hyperextend, he knows she can do it) and the other would be slipped between her teeth until the strip is soaked with saliva and Dior lipstick.

Except that he likes it when she sasses him.

So maybe a focus on the pencil skirt instead. He'd take her at the knees, hiking her up onto the bench so that his face was level with her cunt. He'd spread her thighs – how flexible is his Alicia? – and hook her legs about his shoulders until the edge of each heel scraped against his neck, the balls of her feet brushing against his hair. Sweeney wanted to feel the dust of the courtroom searing into his skin.

Would her stockings be silky smooth? Would there be a coating of stubble peeking through the sheen? He'd swear he could already smell her lotion and that lovely, muskier scent. She wouldn't be wet for him, not at first, but given some time he wondered how much of the gravel's handle she could take –

"Mr. Sweeney?"

He opens his eyes and is greeted by that red, red top. Sweeney's gaze travels up and ohhhh, a sour face today, so he lets his eyes pan back down. It's cold in the office and the tips of her breasts are starting to peak.

"Mr. Sweeney!" She snaps – a whip! – and deliberately crosses her arms. "This is not a hotel room."

"Really?" From his place curled up on her couch he can see the entirety of her office. "It certainly looks like one."

That stare.

"I am serious, my dearest Alicia," he continues. "This décor!" Sweeney puckers his lips in a manner that his women claim is adorable and the men in their lives think disturbing. Alicia isn't swayed, fixed as a statue above him. He keeps pouting until she relents, rolling her eyes and shimmying those hips back to her desk.

"If you dislike it so much," she says, "perhaps you should leave."

She bends over a document and Sweeney is given a delicious view of her scalp. The part in her hair is especially tantalizing, tempting him to run his tongue along the follicles and taste the salt there. If he concentrates he can catch an evaporating whiff of citrus – her shampoo – and he is wild to learn if her hair would burn acidic against his lips. Alicia tucks a lewd strand behind her ear.

"Oh no," Sweeney says. "I'm quite comfortable."

"Then did you want something?" Huffy Alicia. Stroking her pen. A crossing and uncrossing of thighs.

"Always."

Before she can respond to that stunningly honest answer he is swinging his legs up, off the armrest, and planting them wide on the floor. He reveals the gift he's hidden under her couch and Alicia's eyes go wide as he pulls a large, wrapped package from between his legs.

"Mr. Sweeney –"

"Now, now, now, Alicia, you're not rejecting this one." It isn't the first present he's tried to give her, but the thank-you panties and corset hadn't gone over well.

"There we are!"

His fingers discover the elusive edge and with a riiiiiiip the brown paper falls away, curling in two long strips. Beneath is a painting. It was conceived in a style reminiscent of the manga he read as a child, with bold outlines and wide, detailed eyes. It features six women with peach, honey, amber, rose, coal, and night skin tones, all intertwined together until their colors blur and, when one stood back, their combined mass forms the shape of a woman's breasts. It's a favorite of his and is perhaps the only piece in his collection worthy of gracing Alicia's office. (It doesn't hurt that this beauty had previously been hung in his room, directly in line with the bed.)

"To add a spot of color," Sweeney grins.

Alicia's face is roughly the color of curdled milk. She stands, makes to move forward, catches the painting full in the face, and backs away again. Her gaze flickers to the glass window but, oh dear, there is no crisis that demands her attention, no Mr. Gardner waltzing in with doleful eyes, no Mr. Gold lapping at her heels. She is deliciously vulnerable.

"Mr. Sweeney, this is..." Alicia swallows, "This is so thoughtful, but..." she tries to say more, but he throws the words out.

"Nonsense. Your help has been incalculable, dearest Alicia." He hefts the painting and she looses a little more color at its size. Skipping three steps forward Sweeney arrives just in time to chuck Alicia under the chin as she again makes to protest. The lines of her face harden at his familiarity.

"Now," he croons, slipping his fingers from her skin, "where shall we put it?"

"Mr. Sweeney-"

"There's a lovely spot above your desk." It actually isn't lovely at all, so long as that horrendous piece she's already chosen continues to rest there. It is a monstrosity of pastel colors detailing a ship, because law and the nautical go so well together. Sweeney's lips thin with distaste, but before he can comment movement catches his eye.

Kalinda Sharma through the glass, sliding into a red leather jacket (though it's not nearly as nice a red as Alicia's red, red top.) She half nods, half sours on her way past— Alicia smiles in return—but what Alicia can't see is the appreciative look the investigator gives her ass.

Honestly, pictures of boats? At least his lesbian orgy is honest.

"Competition," Sweeney murmurs.

"Excuse me?"

"Don't you think," he insists, leaning on the frame of his painting, "that this would look stunning right over there?"

"Well, I'm not sure about—"

"I am. This part especially goes quite well with the material of your couch." Sweeney's hand closes over a painted woman's breast and Alicia, the minx, neither blushes nor looks away.

"I really don't think—" her voice rises.

"Oh, I insist."

"Mr. Sweeney, you have no right to insist—" but he is past her, the tail of his coat brushing against her hip, and Sweeney reaches, meaning to pull the ship from it's sea and—

"Mr. Sweeney!"

There. That's it.

For just a moment Sweeney is able to close his eyes and allow bliss to wash over him. Then she is at his back, lifting his arms away and dragging his painting far across the room. Alicia leans it against the door, resting her own head as if to gather strength from the wood. She breathes deeply, reigning herself in, but he'd heard it. That steel in her voice is rare and unmistakable.

This is what he really wants. Beyond the sex and the attention of this fascinating woman, he wants to drag that growling, wild thing out of her. To set it in her line of sight and say, "See? That's been there the entire time." There's a dom curled in Alicia's psyche, no doubt about it, but at present it only surfaced for heated cases and the protection of her children. Hardly worthwhile. What would it be like to have her conscious of that psychological imp? To have her fully wielding it both in and—more entertaining – outside of the courtroom?

Well, it would be hot, for one thing.

Sweeney watches as Alicia bends to retrieve bits of the packaging. He has a brief, humorous image of her sitting at a computer – her home, the office, maybe a laptop resting a few inches from that investigator's arm – and hesitantly typing the word "dom" into a search engine. The pervasive blush that would spread, quick and deep, would be oh so wonderful against her pale skin. So nice and close to the surface. Ripe. There was a desire for blood play in his sweet, Saint Alicia. He was sure of it.

Sweeney pads forward and lets out an exaggerated sigh. If the breath released was prolonged enough to tickle the back of her neck… well, he did like making her squirm. "I was so sure you'd like this one," he pouts.

Alicia turns, a muscle twitching in her cheek. "While I appreciate the thought—"

"But you don't." Might as well be honest. Not that her appreciation was what he'd been striving for.

To her credit, Alicia doesn't even pause. "No, Mr. Sweeney, I don't." She crosses her arms, defensive and determined. "Yes, clients sometimes give gifts as tokens of gratitude, flowers and the like, but your— your… art…" 'art' is obviously not the word she was looking for, "is far from appropriate. I don't want you bringing it into my office again."

Can I bring it into your bedroom? He thinks.

"Understood," but he's grinning, hefting the painting with an ease he hopes she appreciates. "I only wanted to make you happy, Alicia."

"You want far more than that, Mr. Sweeney."

Well, well. Cold honesty.

"Perceptive, aren't we? But I'll settle for flowers. Expect a bouquet sometime tomorrow, my dear."

"Goodbye, Mr. Sweeney." She leads him out the door, the hand at his back just firm enough to be exciting. Sweeney shuffles his feet until her knuckles are forced to grind against his spine. It's intoxicating and over too soon.

"It was so nice to see you again, Alicia. Do accept my apologies."

Her only response is to slowly but deliberately close the door. When it latches she waves from the window. Or maybe she's shooing him from the building.

Sweeney winks and sets off, ignoring the frightened looks his painting gets.

He really would love to teach Alicia a thing or two about pleasure, but he is smart enough to acknowledge that it would probably never happen. She's married – not that that would stop him – and when she isn't playing housewife Alicia likes making goo-goo eyes at Will Gardner. Not that Will isn't a handsome fellow; just a little vanilla. Alicia deserves – and craves – something with spice, she just doesn't realize it yet. If she ever did, Sweeney would be more than willing to give her what she desired.

Hauling his painting out the front door Sweeny passes the investigator again. She's leaning against the building, looking like the firm's guard dog.

"You'd look good in a collar, my dear," he says.

Sharma glares at him, whether at the comment or his presence he's not sure. He'll have to keep in mind that this woman is, indeed, competition. Should Alicia ever desire that spice, he's not the only one who'd be willing to give it to her.

Sweeney hurries off, whistling.

There's an endless stream of women in his life, all of whom are willing to do and have done raunchy, nasty things. Sweeney always caves. He fucks them or pleasures them, hurts them or pretends to love them. He does whatever he wants to them and they leave. Sweeney is always content with their departure.

Alicia's the only one he can imagine doing things to, again and again and again.

* * *

_7. That wasn't even Lana on the phone. It was work._

_ Your voice on that phone was not work._

Kalinda loves Alicia.

Leela loves Alicia.

That's never happened before.

She stands on a street corner, arms locked around her middle, acting as a poor buffer between her and the wind. It's long past 4:00am. No cabs come to this part of Chicago and public transportation isn't an option, not when she has her gun and a streak of blood across her coat, dark against the purple leather. Kalinda knows that she should start walking, to ensure that she'll be back in the office by morning, but her feet will only move up and down, stamping against the cold. The only other part of her that moves is her right hand, inching away from the comparative warmth of her chest and towards her back pocket. Towards her cell phone.

Leela wants to call. Kalinda does too. It's the shock of that agreement more than any uncertainty that slows her hand. She doesn't even know if they actually crave help or just the sound of a certain voice. Guess it doesn't much matter either way.

The phone finds its way into Kalinda's hand, her arms bursting with cold needles. Her thumb fumbles, but the number is right at the top of her contacts, labeled only as "A." For just a moment Kalinda smiles, acknowledging the appropriateness that she should be at the top.

Kalinda moves now, dancing lightly to the rings and the silence in-between them. A dull shaking begins in her chest and spreads outwards. Kalinda knows she'll be nursing a cold within the next day or so.

Ring, ring, ring.

She was a deep sleeper, wasn't she? Last year's Christmas party and she'd dozed in Will's office, successfully ignoring Robertson knocking over the filing cabinet, David Lee's exuberant toast—

"Hello?"

"Alicia."

The name slips out more quickly than she'd have liked. It rests between them, infused with exhaustion and chattering teeth.

"Kalinda?" Then, with more confidence: "Kalinda." Down the line she can hear Alicia's wince as she turns on the light. "Are you alright?"

That ridiculously complicated question has Kalinda shutting her eyes; swallowing. This is far from the first time she's called Alicia in the middle of the night, but if it were about a case they both know she would have said so immediately, leaving Alicia's sleep addled brain to play catch up. It's also not the first time she's called for… other reasons. Kalinda knows what Alicia is asking.

"Well, I'm alive aren't I?" she asks, enjoying the frustrated huff her words produce. "Really. Nothing broken or bleeding. Nothing serious."

"How about anything _not _serious?" Alicia snaps and the anger makes Kalinda grin. "Or how about we agree on a definition of 'serious'?"

"I need a ride," she evades, still grinning. Kalinda already feels warmer. "Can you send a company car?"

"Yeah right. Tell me where you are or I'll have Zach track your phone— no. Wait. He has a Chemistry test tomorrow—today— or is that Thursday? Shit—just _please _get under a street light, or at least find a storefront—"

Kalinda gives the address willingly enough. This is what she'd wanted after all. She doesn't want Alicia here, in this hole of a neighborhood, but she does want her _here. _It's a level of selfishness that Kalinda's really okay with embracing right now.

She listens to the rest of Alicia's frantic instructions, her voice wavering as she pulls on shirts and sneaks past her kids. The timber of her voice moves between soothing and chiding and Kalinda would probably be very turned on if she weren't so damn cold. More's the pity.

She waits and Kalinda knows when Alicia arrives even though her car is still two blocks away; it's that dark and the only other sound is a man moaning in the building behind her. When Alicia does pull up her face is as white as her headlights. She lunges to get the passenger door open the second she spots Kalinda, only to realize that she'd locked her car down twenty minutes before. Through the window Kalinda can see curses forming on Alicia's lips. They look good there.

The door eventually pops open, letting out a wall of heat that makes Kalinda gasp. Their eyes meet and Alicia's are hard gems. The anger there is almost enough to make her step back, if only because an angry Alicia tries her control.

"_Get. In._"

However, Kalinda only has so much self-restraint and she can hardly ignore a direct order. With a wiry smile she scrambles to obey.

Jump, Kalinda.

Okay. How high?

The twenty minutes back are a study in Alicia's own self control, specifically her ability to keep from yelling herself hoarse. Her eyes are determinedly glaring holes in the road except that more than once Kalinda feels them landing on her like flies: invasive and buzzing. Alicia's gaze touches her disheveled hair, the mud coating her boots, the scratches Kalinda can feel now that she's not entirely frozen, and of course, the blood. It's vibrant even in the car's shadows.

Alicia's gaze falls to her skirt – far too short for this weather – and Kalinda shakes, feeling sick. She realizes how pathetic this is, to indulge in a touch that's not even tangible and that's born of a colleague's (_just a colleague_) anger at her poor decisions. So Kalinda let's herself shiver, knowing that it will batter away at Alicia's rage.

It works and three minutes later they're pulling into an empty parking lot. Alicia turns all the heating vents in Kalinda's direction and begins pealing off her coat.

"I'm fine," she insists, which only folds Alicia's lips into a thinner, sharper line. She leans forward and violently tucks the wool around Kalinda's shoulders. She also winds a cream scarf around her neck and it's while her fingers are connecting them that she finally speaks.

"If I ask," Alicia growls, breath hot, "why you're out in this awful neighborhood, without a coat, with—" she pulls in a breath, steadying herself. "—with _blood_… Would you answer?"

Alicia's hand is still resting on her shoulder so Kalinda settles on admitting, "It's not my blood." Her words have the opposite desired effect of making Alicia flinch back.

"Jesus, Kalinda. Do you need a—?"

"No." She worms her hands out from under the coat, shoving them directly onto the heat. "I told you. It's fine."

They're quiet a very long time, long enough that other cars start passing them, covered in morning dew.

"This isn't like those times before," Alicia finally says, her voice rusty.

"Would you have come if you'd known?"

"Yes. Of course."

Kalinda has to close her eyes. Everyone makes such a big deal out of "I love you," but Alicia's three words mean so much more.

"Let me take you home," she says, putting the car back into drive. "I've got a First Aid kit and I'm making pumpkin pancakes before Zach's test." At the offer Kalinda pulls herself back down into the coat and scarf, hiding.

I'd love to have breakfast, Kalinda wants to say. Leela wants to say, I love you.

"I thought the chemistry test might be on Thursday," They say instead.

"We can still have pancakes."

"… Okay."

But five minutes away from Alicia's home she thinks about sitting at the counter with Grace and Zach, trying to explain to them why she's there at 6:00 in the morning, eating breakfast with the family of a woman who's Just A Colleague. So Kalinda remembers errands that need doing before work and asks to be dropped of here— yes, here is fine. Alicia frowns, but doesn't look surprised. She refuses to take her coat and scarf back, saying that Kalinda needs them more if she's walking anywhere in this weather.

"Just give them to me when you get in." Alicia smiles at her. It's a tired, worried, utterly frustrated smile, but it's more than she deserves.

"Sure. See you soon."

Kalinda arrives at _Lockhart & Gardner _four hours later, dressed in more appropriate clothing that lacks any blood. The only evidence of her nightly adventure is a single scratch along her cheek.

Alicia is in a meeting with Diane, so she leaves the garments on her desk chair. Earlier, Leela and Kalinda had both decided that their "errand" should consist of buying a cream colored scarf. It's now draped over the coat, tag removed, identical to the original in every way, but not in any way that matters.

They keep Alicia's scarf for themselves, with its spicy smell and the fraying fringe.

Leela wonders if Alicia will notice.

Kalinda wonders what they'll do if she does.


End file.
